He stands and walks to the kitchen. I tense automatically, not because he moves toward me, but because movement in quiet rooms still makes my body guess wrong. He opens a cabinet, takes down two glasses, and fills them with water. Then he brings one to me, stopping far enough away that I have to reach for it.
Always an inch of choice.
I take the glass. “Thank you.”
He sits again, this time on the couch itself, leaving the whole other cushion empty between him and the chair, as if he is drawing a map of distance for both of us.
“What comes next is boundaries,” he says.
I smile faintly. “Sophie would be proud.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“She probably already knows.”
“Unfortunately true.”
I sip water, then set the glass down. “Okay. Boundaries.”
“You and August have the bedroom. Door stays how you want it. Locked, cracked, open. I don’t come in without permission unless there’s danger.”
“Okay.”
“I’m on the couch. If that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll sleep on the porch or in the garage.”
“No,” I say too fast.
His brows lift.
I blush. “I mean, the couch is fine.”
“Good.”
“If I need space, I’ll say so.”
“Good.”
“If I need help, I’ll try to say so.”
His expression shifts. “Try?”
“I’m not good at needing things out loud.”
“No kidding.”
I glare at him.
He shrugs. “You said it first.”
“I can’t promise I won’t apologize too much.”
“I can promise it’ll annoy me.”
That almost makes me smile.
“I can’t promise I won’t panic,” I say.
“Didn’t ask you to.”